Echoes from the Past
by Lady Razorsharp
Summary: Novelization. Hawke receives word that his brother is alive. Could it be true?
1. Special Delivery

AN: I don't own Airwolf; Mr. Bellasario and Universal do. Dialogue is taken directly from the episode, _Echoes from the Past. _

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When Stringfellow Hawke was at home—which in recent months had been less than he liked—he made it a habit to practice with his cello for at least an hour every afternoon. He had started doing so when he first learned to play in junior high school, and the tradition had stayed with him into adulthood.

He smiled to himself; he wouldn't be playing at the Hollywood Bowl any time soon, but it was an interesting pastime. The cello seemed to have a depth to it that invited exploration, and doing so had helped him through many difficult periods of his life.

In fact, he thought absently, as the cello sighed and sang under his fingertips, returning to the instrument had become part of his rehabilitation when he returned from Vietnam. He remembered how frustrating it had been at first; his hands had been clumsy and stiff, and he had found it difficult to concentrate. However, his innate stubbornness refused to let him give up, and soon his muscles remembered the long-practiced motions. After a few months of diligent practice, he had nearly regained his pre-deployment agility on the strings. After a year, he was playing better than he had before he left.

He continued to move through the piece he was currently working on, a soulful piece by Ernest Bloch entitled 'Prayer'. The notes rose and fell in a haunting cadence that reminded him of a cantor he had once heard at the wedding of a Jewish friend. The piece was challenging, and he slowed down a fraction to make sure he was playing a particularly complicated section correctly.

Something flickered just at the edge of his range of hearing; something not connected with the music. He lifted the bow from the cello and stilled the strings, then cocked his head at the ceiling and listened intently. The rangy bluetick coonhound at Hawke's feet raised his own head, shaggy ears twitching as the sound grew louder.

It was not a helicopter; that much Hawke was sure of. He carefully put aside the cello and crossed to the front door of the cabin, and then opened the door and stepped out onto the porch as the dog slipped past him. Before he even looked up, Hawke knew what would meet his eyes: A vintage biplane, warbling its way across the pristine blue sky.

As Hawke watched, an object tumbled from the open cockpit of the biplane to land with a thump at the edge of the cleared space that acted as the cabin's front yard. Though his first instinct was to treat the unknown item as if it were about to explode, Hawke inched closer for a better look. The object turned out to be a package wrapped in rough cloth, tied to a brick with strong twine, and Hawke retrieved it from its nest of cushioning pine needles.

A tag with his name printed on it in an unfamiliar hand was tied to one end of the twine, and Hawke scowled. In his experience, items that required such a dramatic delivery were bound to bring their share of trouble.

_Well_, he thought, heading back into the cabin,_ guess I'd better find out just _how much _trouble_.

Hawke took the brick over to the bar and carefully freed the cloth package from the twine, then undid the cloth to reveal a small jeweler's gift box. Inside the box lay a half-circle of hammered links attached to a rectangular plate.

With his heart pounding in his ears, Hawke gently took the bracelet into his hand and held it to the light. Among a myriad of scratches, he could just make out the name engraved on the plate: _Saint John_.

He heard himself breathe his brother's name into the stillness of the cabin. The low glow of hope that always simmered inside of him briefly flared to life, but it dwindled again just as quickly. True, the bracelet looked an awful lot like the one Dom had given to Saint John at his high school graduation, but sixteen years of following cold trails to dead ends tempered the hope with a strong dose of skepticism. The stakes were high enough that it could be a fake, part of a complex ruse perpetrated by the Firm in order to retrieve Airwolf once and for all. The thought put a sour taste in Hawke's mouth, but the possibility was there.

However, further examination of the package revealed a folded piece of paper resting beneath the square of cotton in the box. Hawke unfolded the note and scanned the words, which were written in the same hand as the tag.

_What's here is a gift. Talk costs money. I'll be at the closed-down airfield over in Crofton in an hour. Come if you're interested._

Brows knitted, Hawke folded the note and placed it back in the box. It could still be a trick, but there was too little data to tell if the bracelet had been sent by the Firm or some unknown foe.

He'd told Michael that he would give Airwolf back when Saint John was found; that was the deal they'd struck after Hawke and Dom came back from Libya. If the Firm had Saint John, Hawke reasoned that Michael would jump at the chance to get his precious helicopter back. There would be no need for such time-consuming skullduggery, not when a prize such as Airwolf was in the offing.

No, Hawke thought, returning the scarred bit of jewelry to its box, this was something different. In the end, it didn't matter who brought Saint John home. Airwolf would still go back to the Firm, and if following this lead served to cut through miles of red tape, then so much the better. Michael would be happy, the Firm would be happy, and Hawke could finally get back to his life.

His decision made, Hawke put the box in his safe and went to go fire up the Hughes.


	2. Bright and Dark

AN: Dialogue is taken directly from the episode, _Echoes from the Past._

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The airfield at Crofton had been abandoned a decade before, and the runway was now little more than a weed-choked strip of asphalt at the edge of a run-down hangar. The grassy area around the strip was relatively flat, and many of the bush pilots preferred it to the crumbling runway. As he followed the old approach and crested the last ridge near the airfield, Hawke easily spotted the aircraft.

A second glance told Hawke that the gaudy red-and-white plane was a Stearman, much like the one that Dom kept at the airfield in Van Nuys. Unlike Dom's bird, this one had been fully restored and well-maintained. Dom was always bemoaning the fact that he never had enough time or money to invest in the Stearman's upkeep, but whoever this bird belonged to had money to burn. When Hawke saw the lanky figure clad in leather fedora and bomber jacket leaning against the wing of the plane, he knew exactly where the money had come from.

"Halloa, old stick!" The man shouted over the noise of the Hughes spinning down. "Remember me?"

If the plane had not already given the man's identity away, the English accent would have. "Peter MacGregor Moore," Hawke shot back, his hackles already rising. "How could I ever forget?"

Moore grinned. "Short notice," he admitted, "but I thought you'd make it."

"Is my brother alive?" Hawke had tangled with Moore enough to know that the man had a devil-may-care approach to flying and even less concern about where his money came from. In short, the man was a sleaze, and Hawke saw no reason to spend any more time with him than was absolutely necessary.

The curt question didn't faze the Englishman. "Ah! I said talk costs money."

"How much money?"

If there was one thing Moore was good at, it was the fine art of negotiation. Hawke knew that the first few sets of offers and counter-offers would be tests, leading gradually to what Moore truly wanted.

Unaware of Hawke's impatient musings, the other pilot pursed his lips in thought. "I'd take a trade—say, that chopper over there." He nodded to the matte-black Hughes 500 behind Hawke.

"It's not mine." Dom would probably have given his whole hangar if it would bring Saint John home, but Hawke wasn't going to second-guess his mentor.

"Too bad," said Moore, only mildly regretful. "What about your cabin? Or maybe this wonderful art collection I've heard so much about?"

From the way his sly smile didn't reach his eyes, it was clear that he'd hoped the insider information would get to Hawke. However, when Hawke didn't rise to his bait, Moore's smile returned in earnest as Hawke removed his own sunglasses to reveal a steely gaze. "The years haven't done much to improve your sense of humor," the Englishman observed.

"Don't you play with me, Moore." Hawke's words were almost a snarl. "Not about this."

Moore met his gaze squarely, a tactic that usually said 'honesty' but made Hawke all the more suspicious. "I'll take a thousand dollars for my expenses," said the Englishman, in a tone backed by a good deal of emotion.

Hawke weighed the situation for a moment. Moore was up to something—he was always up to something—but there was another dimension to this conversation that Hawke couldn't quite pin down. He decided to play the negotiation out and see where it led. "Agreed."

Moore reached one gloved hand into the inside pocket of his bomber, brought out a folded piece of heavy paper, and offered it to Hawke. The chopper pilot took the paper and unfolded it to reveal an aerial photograph. A rough cluster of buildings huddled in a patchwork of farmland, and Hawke could see several blurs that looked like military helicopters parked near some of the buildings.

"Your brother's being held in this compound," said Moore. "Weighs about a hundred pounds, but he's basically healthy. His mind's still in good nick."

With an effort long made automatic during the years of his search, Hawke forced down the hope that welled in his chest. "Where?"

"Quon Ling province, North Vietnam. Off-course weather satellite picked him up purely by chance." Moore waited for a moment as Hawke let the information sink in. "Saint John's being held with eleven other Caucasians by an ex-NVA colonel named Nuyen Min Giap—apparently a man who holds a grudge. Two of his prisoners are ex-Frog Legionnaires dating back to Dien Bien Phu in '54. Poor sods are in their 60's."

The information seemed plausible, but Moore was a leopard who hadn't changed his spots in the time Hawke had known him. "Where'd you find out about this?"

"Another mercenary," said Moore, apparently unconcerned at tarring himself with the same brush. "He occasionally freelances for the Firm. After we picked up the shot, we sent him in to take a closer look."

Hawke felt his blood pressure rise a notch. Withholding information was par for the course for the Firm, but this was dirty pool even for Michael. "So the Firm knows all about this?"

Moore gave Hawke a look that bordered on sympathy. "Wondering why your friend Archangel didn't tell you?"

Hawke didn't think he needed to dignify that with a response. Moore had also freelanced for the Firm, and he knew as well as Hawke did how tight-lipped Michael could be.

"Don't be too hard on old Michael," Moore said breezily, wielding his easy charm as effectively as a sniper rifle. "He had a task force put together, trained them personally at Langley so they wouldn't screw up like they did in Iran—and at the last minute, the State Department pulled the rug from under him."

It could have been the glare from the setting sun, or the desire to throttle the Deputy Director of the Firm, but Hawke felt a migraine coming on. Moore seemed to be winding up his tale, so Hawke made himself focus on the Englishman's words.

"Last I heard, they were negotiating for a release. Now you know as much as I know."

_I'll just bet_, Hawke scowled to himself through the pounding in his head.

"I suggest you don't tip your hand to dear Michael." After this pronouncement, Moore hesitated a brief moment. He nodded to himself, as if having come to an internal decision, and then moved to swing himself up into the Stearman's cockpit.

"Don't you want your money?" Even through the blinding pain, Hawke knew this was a radical departure from the norm. A dyed-in-the-wool merc just didn't up and leave before getting paid, especially one as clever and greedy as Moore.

To Hawke's surprise, Moore's lean face softened a bit at the edges. "I had a brother once. Lost him in Rhodesia a couple of years ago. It's on the house." He cracked a self-deprecating smile. "Even an old whore like me has a heart buried somewhere."

When the Stearman's red-and-white checkerboard rudder was nothing but a dot in a field of blue, Hawke fired up the Hughes and took off down the valley back toward the lake. The headache had subsided a fraction, but now he wished he'd thought to remove his jacket. The sunlight streaming through the canopy made the cockpit unbearably warm, and the air was stuffy and stagnant.

A wave of nausea swept over him, and the instrument panel blurred for a moment. Hawke raised a hand to his forehead and found it blazing hot; was he coming down with something? Vertigo seized him as the Hughes dipped alarmingly, and he tried to regain control of the aircraft long enough to set it down.

With every heartbeat, the vertigo and nausea grew worse, and a cold panic began to seep into Hawke's veins. He hadn't told anyone where he was going; he hadn't filed a flight plan. If he went down among the trees, no one would know. The thought kept him fighting, kept him hanging on through the shakes that threatened to jerk his hands from the collective, kept him trying to make his eyes focus and his lungs draw slow, calming breaths.

Suddenly, everything went black. Tumbling over onto the passenger's seat, Hawke felt the Hughes nose over into a dive, G-forces pushing and pulling at him as the small craft spiraled toward the earth.

The helicopter slammed against the wall of the canyon, shattering into pieces like a toy discarded by an angry child. Flames fueled by Jet-A ripped through what was left, incinerating everything not destroyed by the impact.

The last thing Hawke saw was the image of Dom, his gap-toothed grin flashing against the darkness.

Impossibly, a gabble of voices broke over the crackle of flames. People shouted, their voices raised in alarm. A woman screamed; another sobbed.

"Someone go call an ambulance!" More shouts. Light flickered; shapes moved.

He couldn't speak. He couldn't breathe. Hot, sticky fluid rose in his throat, in his mouth.

"Oh, God—" Someone nearby succumbed to a fit of retching. The world grew lighter. Faces loomed above him, worried, frightened, panicked.

A blonde woman ran toward him, only to clap one hand over her mouth and turn away in horror. He almost smiled; she looked so much like Ellie, his brother's girlfriend in 'Nam.

Pain pierced his chest, his legs, his head. He had smelled death before, but now it smelled like burning jet fuel.

Oblivion swooped down upon him, like Airwolf closing in on a target. She came for him, and then bore him away from pain and fear on gentle wings of purest black.


	3. To Hell and Back

AN: The Vietnam flashback is inspired by a real event recounted in the book "Rattler One-Seven" by Chuck Gross.

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Awareness returned painfully, slowly, as if he was dragging himself up from the bottom of a swamp. The air tasted medicinal, and something was tickling his nose. He swiped at his face clumsily, and his fingers touched plastic tubing.

_Oxygen,_ his brain supplied, conjuring up memories of blue sky and a glass canopy overhead. His fingers told him of thin cotton fabric against his chest-pajamas?-and thicker cotton fabric at his side. Memories tumbled over him, memories of a military hospital, of Nhi Huong's coffee-colored eyes, of chaos and voices and-

He felt like his brain was on fast-forward and rewind at the same time. One thought managed to cut through the morass: _Find Dom._

Hawke wasn't quite sure how he'd managed it, but a moment later he found himself stumbling along a brightly lit hallway, carpet underfoot and white walls careening in his peripheral vision. Hurried footsteps came up behind him, but he was a man on a mission, and shook off the hands that grabbed at him.

A tall, thin blonde in a nurses' uniform blocked his way. She spun him around and gave him a none-too-gentle shove into the arms of a sturdy-looking orderly. "Get back," she hissed. "Get back! You shouldn't be here!"

It took a moment for Hawke to realize that the last sentence wasn't directed at him, but at a young dark-haired woman in an elevator at the end of the hallway. The girl froze, looking like a deer in headlights, her dark brown eyes wide in surprise.

"This floor is private," said the blonde nurse, her voice dripping with ice. "_Get lost. NOW!_"

"Sorry!" squeaked the girl, and the door slid shut.

The hallway swam and dipped in Hawke's vision, and he blacked out. When he came to, he was flat on his back in a hospital bed. The blonde nurse was bending over him.

He felt like he was on fire; he could feel the sweat trickling down the sides of his face. "Where...where am I?"

"You're in a hospital," said the nurse, her tone even, her eyes concentrating on her work as she did something to his arm. There was a brief, sharp pain in the skin of his forearm; the thrust of a needle. "You were in a helicopter crash," said the nurse, as she secured the needle with surgical tape.

_What?_ He looked up at her. "Wait—how long have I been here?"

"Shush." The nurse patted his arm in a manner Hawke supposed was meant to be reassuring. "Rest now. Dr. Rothschild has been called for, and he'll answer all your questions when he gets here."

Hawke frowned, more confused than before. There was something about the nurse's bedside manner didn't jive with what happened in the hallway... "What day is this?"

The nurse briefly warmed her stethoscope between her hands and placed it against his chest. "It's Wednesday," she said, her tone that of a patient mother explaining to a child.

He had just been at the cabin, what day had that been? Sunday? Monday? "I have to make a phone call," he protested. "I have to call Dom."

"It'll have to wait," said the nurse, her voice gaining a sharp edge as Hawke struggled to sit up.

The nurse's hands seemed to be everywhere he turned, and he thrashed from side to side, trying to escape. "It _can't_ wait," he growled.

"It already _has_," Mr. Hawke," said a smooth male voice. A tall, middle-aged man in wire-framed glasses and a white coat stepped into the pilot's field of vision. "You've been comatose for the better part of a year."

_What?_ It was as if all the fight left Hawke's body, and he fell back, exhausted. The room was beginning to blur.

The man smiled. "I'm Dr. Rothschild. I've been your physician for the past eight-and-a-half months."

_No,_ thought Hawke, _that's not right..._ Everything felt too raw, like he'd just left it undone yesterday. He had something important to do...

"Why don't you go back to sleep for a little while, Mr. Hawke," Rothschild suggested, with a glance at the nurse. "Don't try to sort it all out right now. Just give yourself a little time." He dropped his hand to Hawke's shoulder and gave him a kind smile. "I'll be back later, and we'll get started on your road to recovery."

Hawke sighed and let the nurse rearrange the bedclothes into some semblance of order. "Doesn't look like I have much of a choice," he grumbled. His eyelids were heavy, and he was asleep within seconds.

_He was flying, silently skimming over an endless ocean of deep green. The motion was effortless, beautiful; he was free. In the distance, he saw a glimmering ribbon of gold-a river, glinting in the light of a gorgeous red-orange sunset over smoky blue mountains._

_Slowly, he became aware of a low, droning hum in his ears, punctuated by bursts of sharp noise. The atmosphere around him began to thicken, almost as if the air had a physical weight against his skin._

_The scene before him dipped and swayed. A deafening miasma of sound assaulted his ears; voices shouting, the heavy chatter of M-60 machine guns, the deep thrumming of chopper blades cutting through tropical air._

_A voice crackled to life over the radio. "Tomcat one-four, Tomcat one-four! String, where the hell are you?"_

_Hawke frowned, scarcely able to believe his ears. "Saint John?"_

_"String!" His brother's voice held an unmistakable note of panic. "Charlie's all over us! Get us out of here, little brother!"_

_"I'm coming, just hold on!" Hawke felt the Huey respond to his commands, but suddenly there was a cry of alarm from behind him, and the chopper began to shake violently._

_He keyed the frequency to his crew's headsets. "What's going on back there?"_

_"We've taken a hit in the transmission, Mr. Hawke," said the crew chief. "She's leaking bad; it doesn't look good!"_

_Hawke threw a glance over his shoulder and saw that the open deck was a slippery mess of reddish fluid. His crew chief met his eyes with an anxious stare while the gunners tried to keep their footing._

_"Damnit," Hawke swore, switching back to his brother. "I've taken a hit in the transmission," he reported. "I don't know if I'm gonna make it to you!"_

_"Don't leave us here! Please, String! Help us!"_

_Tears began at the corner of Hawke's eyes. "Just hang on!"_

_"Oh, God, String, here they come-"_

_"Saint John!"_

_Someone grabbed his shoulder and was shaking it. "Mr. Hawke!" It was his crew chief. "Mr. Hawke!"_

"...Mr. Hawke."

Stringfellow's eyes snapped open. "_Saint John,_" he gasped, but strong hands pushed him back down.

"Time to wake up, Mr. Hawke," said a smooth voice-Dr. Rothschild, he realized-overhead.

Looking up, Hawke muzzily tried to bring the doctor into focus.

"You were dreaming," said Rothschild.

"More like a nightmare," muttered Hawke, relieved to find that the dream didn't match his memory of the last time he'd seen Saint John. His brother had bravely given up his spot on String's rescue flight to a wounded soldier and then seemed to vanish in the confusion of a firefight.

"It means you're on the mend," said the doctor, turning away to fiddle with the knobs of an evil-looking device at Hawke's bedside. "Your brain is returning to its normal functions-REM sleep, and so on." He took a penlight from his pocket. "Now look at me for just a moment."

Willing the nightmare back into the dark depths from which it came, Hawke obeyed. The pinpoint of light flicked this way and that, and after a few moments, the doctor nodded in satisfaction.

"Your pupils are working like the aperture of an expensive camera, Mr. Hawke," he said. "It's a good sign."

Hawke felt the itch of adhesive on his forehead, and turning to his left, saw a bundle of thin wires that trailed down his pillow. He followed the wires to the machine, which reminded him of a sci-fi version of a player piano with its moving roll of paper. A dozen needles flickered and danced over the paper, inscribing peaks and valleys like a seismograph. "What is that thing?" he asked.

"This is an EEG machine," explained Rothschild, gesturing to the device. "It measures the electrical impulses of the brain, and tells us if there's been any damage done."

Hawke blinked, wondering if he could have brain damage and not know it. A flash of panic registered deep in his chest; if he was impaired, the FAA could pull his ticket and he'd never fly again. "There's no chance of—"

Rothschild seemed to sense his fear and broke in before Hawke could finish the sentence. "There's always a chance when someone's been comatose for a long time," said the doctor, making a notation on the rolling sheet of paper. "Do you remember anything of the crash?"

Hawke frowned in concentration as memories washed over him. _Feelings of vertigo, a blurry instrument panel, and then fire and the coppery taste of blood..._ "Bits and pieces," he admitted.

"We think you had a heart seizure at the controls of your helicopter," said Rothschild gravely. "Shortly after you arrived here, you went into complete cardiac arrest. Clinically, you were gone for several minutes."

Hazy images tickled at the back of Hawke's mind at Rothschild's words: Impressions of chaotic activity going on all around him, fading away to be replaced by the elfin beauty of a young, dark-haired woman. Her kiss had left a whisper of calm in his mind, and then she too had disappeared into the darkness.

For the moment, Hawke pushed aside the images. "Did a man named Dominic Santini come to see me, ever?"

There were a few heartbeats of silence. "There's lots of news that you have to catch up on, Mr. Hawke," said Rothschild smoothly. "It's best if we move slowly."

A warning bell of alarm began to trill in the back of Hawke's mind. "Doc," said String, clamping a hand on the doctor's wrist. "It's a pretty simple question: Did Dominic come to see me?"

There was a flash of pity in the doctor's eyes, and Hawke's stomach began to do a slow, queasy roll.

"Yes," said the doctor with a tight smile. "He sat in that chair beside your bed day after day, talking to you for hours. He was convinced that you could hear him, even though you didn't answer." Rothschild paused, as if trying to control his emotions. "He was a good friend."

_No..._ It was warm in the room, but Hawke shivered. "What do you mean,'was'?"

Rothschild sighed. "Mr. Santini's dead."

Hawke stared at the doctor, blinking owlishly in disbelief. Dom was a good pilot and an even better mechanic; an accident would have been someone else's fault. Hawke finally found his voice and forced out a single syllable. "How?"

"He and another man raided a prisoner of war camp in North Vietnam that was still holding Americans prisoner. Your brother, Saint John, was among them. Saint John was rescued, but Mr. Santini and another man were killed in the process."

Another memory flashed through Hawke's mind: Moore, leaning up against the wing of a biplane, a sad smile on his lean face. _"I had a brother once; lost him a couple of years ago in Rhodesia. It's on the house. Even an old whore like me has a heart buried somewhere."_

Hawke was dimly aware of the EEG skritching away like crazy beside him. "Saint John's here?"

"Yes," the doctor said with a kind smile. "He's on his way back from Alexandria, Virginia. We called him last night as soon as you came to."

There was a buzzing in Hawke's ears, as if a swarm of angry bees were locked inside his skull. Through the splintering pain in his head, he glanced up at the doctor through slitted eyes. "When was this raid? And who was the other man?"

"The raid was way back in July." The doctor made a notation on the paper. "The other man was named..." he trailed off as if casting back in his memory. "...Coldsmith-Briggs."

A wave of cold nausea washed over Hawke. "_Archangel_," he slurred, Michael's codename slipping out before he could stop it.

When the doctor merely nodded, Hawke had the strong feeling that something was not right. It was too pat, too convenient, and a thought pinged in the pitch-black tumult of Hawke's thoughts: _Next he'll tell me they were in Airwolf..._

The doctor patted Hawke's shoulder. "We're done with the EEG for today. Rest for a while."

The words were almost a compulsion, and Hawke found he could not resist. He wanted more details about his brother, but at the same time he was relieved to escape into a dreamless sleep, far beyond the reach of grief and shock.


	4. Road to Recovery

AN: I don't own Airwolf and Co.; Mr. Bellasario and Universal do.

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The sunlight slanting through the blinds had the golden hue of late afternoon by the time Hawke opened his eyes. He felt better, but everything surrounding the accident was still a jumble of words and images in his head, and he couldn't seem to think straight enough to get it all sorted out.

_Eight-and-a-half months_, Hawke mused, staring unseeing at the ceiling tiles. His whole world had been turned upside down and inside out, and all the while he had lay unaware of the rescue of his brother and the death of his mentor.

Even as his eyes filled with tears, a brief smile ghosted across his lips; what it had been like when Dom had seen Saint John? Knowing his mentor as he did, Hawke knew that Dom would have considered the rescue mission as nothing less than his duty. For String and Saint John, he would have willingly thrown his lot in with Archangel, even though Dom had little tolerance for the double-talking spook. At an age where Dominic should have looked toward a peaceful retirement at his airfield with his beloved helicopters, the stocky, stubborn Italian had suited up, smeared his face with camo, and dove headlong into a place that swallowed men whole.

String sighed, remembering the day he himself had left for Vietnam. Standing at the airport gate, he'd stood up straight in his brand-new Army greens and looked Dom right in the eye, man to man.

_Thank you,_ he'd said. _Thank you for all you've done for Saint John and me. I know Mom and Dad would have—_

Dom had stepped forward and caught him up in a bear hug, cutting off String's words. _I know, son,_ he said, voice ragged. _You take care of yourself._

And now Dominic was gone. String hoped death had come quickly; the thought of Dom in the hands of a despot like Giap made his blood boil and his stomach churn.

There was a knock at the door, and then Dr. Rothschild stepped into the room, a smile on his face and a bundle under his arm. Behind him was the tall blond nurse, carrying a trio of covered mugs on a tray. As the nurse set the mugs on the rolling bedside table, Rothschild laid the bundle in String's lap.

"You're doing very well, Mr. Hawke," said the doctor, moving to the chart at the end of the bed and making a small notation. "I think you're strong enough to take a look at the papers we saved for you."

String glanced at the item lying on top: A Time Magazine, dated August 1984, with a blurry picture similar to the one Moore had given him on the cover. The title read: _Rescuing Saint John Hawke- One POW's Long Journey Home. _He picked up the magazine and began to flip through it, but trying to focus on the words made his head ache.

Dropping the magazine back onto the pile, he glanced at the mugs. "What're these?"

"Beef broth, cranberry juice, and herbal tea," explained the nurse. "We're going to start weaning you off the IV soon."

Hawke grimaced and pushed the beef broth aside. Just the thought of eating solid food made him want to gag, but the cursory sip of the cranberry juice woke his tongue with an agreeable tingle. The tea was pale, subtly flavored with mint and lemon, and its warmth was comforting.

"How about some TV?" Rothschild suggested, picking up the boxy remote lying on the bedside table. "I'm afraid all the hospital gets is the news channel, but I'm sure it'll help you catch up." When the screen was on, he laid the remote on the bed within easy reach of String's hand. "We'll be back to check on you later," said Rothschild, and he and the nurse departed.

Sipping at the tea, Hawke turned his attention drowsily to the duo of cheery newsanchors babbling on the screen. Like magpies, the handsome man and perky woman chattered about the news of the world: A bank robbery in downtown Los Angeles (the perp was later apprehended at a department store, trying to buy an expensive television); an upcoming summit between President Reagan and Mikhail Gorbachev; and the rumor that Prince Charles and Princess Diana were going to get a divorce.

Hawke let the words roll over him, only mildly interested at the last item. The royal couple had only been married for a few years; it was a shame they'd called it quits so soon. _Oh well_, he mused, finishing off the tea. _Guess they won't be living 'happily ever after.'_

As the voices from the TV droned on, Hawke set aside his empty cup and turned his attention to the bundle of magazines and news articles. Several newspapers bore heavily leaded headlines, exclaiming about the 'daring raid to rescue Vietnam POW.' Several others devoted their front pages to the story, detailing the rescuers' brave foray into the jungle, the ensuing firefight, and the subsequent death of two of the rescuers. Another magazine, obviously an internal publication of some high government agency, featured a portrait of Archangel painted in oils on its cover. Still another publication profiled the 'two who didn't return,' headed with the photograph of Archangel that inspired the portrait, as well as a snapshot of a smiling Dominic.

In the hour that followed, Hawke scanned the offerings but didn't read too many of the articles in their entirety; trying to make sense of the small print for more than a few seconds made him dizzy. When he'd gone through the pile, he switched off the annoying buzz of the television and glanced once again at the date on the first paper: July 18, 1984. From what Rothschild had told him, it was now the middle of February, over eight months since the day he had met Moore at the Crofton airfield. Saint John had been back in the United States for a little over six months. Rothschild had said Saint John was coming from Virginia; why had he been there? Was he working with the government, trying to recover more MIAs and POWs? Hawke wiped his sweaty forehead with an equally sweaty palm, trying to bring his roiling thoughts under control.

The blonde nurse entered his room, a bag of amber liquid in her hands. Unaware of his befuddlement, she gave him a smile, and then proceeded to exchange the empty IV bag for the full one. As she fussed with the machine that controlled the flow, Hawke sighed in defeat and tossed the paper back onto the bed.

There was another knock at the door, and Hawke looked up to see a slender, exotic-looking woman in a lab coat leaning against the doorjamb. "I'm Dr. Holgate," she said, her voice low and throaty. "May I talk with you for a moment?"

What he really wanted was to be left alone, but Hawke supposed he should at least look like he was cooperating. Besides, the sooner he let Holgate in, the sooner she would leave. "Yeah," he acquiesced, shifting uncomfortably.

Holgate sat, exchanging a smile with the departing nurse. "I see they gave you the articles they were saving for you," she said, nodding at the scattered papers. "Your emotions must be going in a lot of different directions right now: A good friend dead; a brother coming back as if from the dead; a whole year unaccounted for—"

"You're a shrink." Hawke turned away in distaste. "I wondered when they'd send you in."

Her laugh was a little self-deprecating. "You think I'm standard operating procedure, do you?"

"For the Firm, you are," Hawke growled. "That's who's paying for this, isn't it?"

"Mm-hmm." Holgate sat with her forearms atop the bed railing, her pointed chin resting on the back of one thin hand. She fixed Hawke with a mild, curious gaze, and at once he felt like a specimen under a microscope.

Hawke scowled up at the IV as it fed him the amber liquid drop by drop. "What the hell is this stuff they're giving me?" He gestured to where the needle was buried in his forearm.

"Just a five-per-cent glucose solution," Holgate explained. "They'll disconnect it when you start eating solid foods again."

"And what's making me feel so groggy?"

"Well," Holgate said conversationally, "you've been hibernating almost a year. Your metabolism has slowed to a crawl; your muscles have atrophied." She tapped her forehead. "Same thing happens up there. Your synapses slow down from lack of use. You feel groggy, logy, punchy…you'll feel better in time."

As if naming his condition encouraged it, Hawke felt sleep begin to pull at him as if he were a boat dropping its anchor. In another moment, his eyelids had fallen shut, blocking out Holgate's look of mothering concern.

Dimly, Hawke felt the brush of her hand against his forehead and heard the whisper of her coat as she stood. "I'll come back tomorrow," she murmured, and then she was just another disturbance in the mist that swirled in Hawke's mind.

* * *

At the age of three, Susan Miyahara had announced to her parents that she was going to be a nurse when she grew up. Her parents had smiled and told her that was very nice, but that she might want to wait until she was a little older to make such a big decision. However, Susan's mind had been made up, and from that time on, everything she did in school was with that end in mind.

Now, twenty-two years later, she was at her goal. She'd finished her requirements in the hospital's nursing program six months before, and passed the Registered Nurse's exam with flying colors. Seeing herself in the mirror every morning still gave her a little thrill: Stiff white cap proudly pinned atop her dark brown flip; uniform pressed and sparkling; Nurse Mates polished to a dazzling whiteness. Sure, the hours were long and the work was hard, but truth to tell, she felt more at home within the walls of the hospital than she did at her small apartment.

She knew the hospital inside and out; had gazed at it longingly on her way past nearly every day of her life, and so she knew the building had four floors. The elevator only went to the third floor, so Susan had always assumed the fourth floor was used for storage, and only accessible if the need arose. However, the other day she'd been off somewhere—_Guess I was thinking about that cute paramedic I'd met in the cafeteria_, she chided herself—and when the door opened on the fourth floor, she'd been startled by both where she was and what she saw.

Instead of seeing a dark, dusty jumble of furniture and outdated medical equipment, she'd seen a pajama-clad man stumbling down a brightly lit corridor. The man's face was blank, as if he was heavily sedated, but his eyes were alive, and she could see he was confused and frightened. Her nursing instincts went off like klaxons in her head, warning her that this man was in deep distress, but a tall, blond nurse whom she'd never seen before turned around before Susan could cross the threshold of the elevator.

"This floor is private," snarled the tall nurse, as an orderly manhandled the stumbling patient back down the hallway and out of sight. "Get lost. _NOW!_"

Susan heard herself mumble an apology as she hit the 'door close' button. Feeling as if she'd been punched in the stomach, she rode the elevator back to the first floor nurse's station, parked her cart, and helped herself to a steadying cupful of water from the cooler. After a moment, the confusion subsided, and she shook her head as if to clear it.

_What in the world was that all about?_

Thankfully, she had been busy enough in the days since that the event quickly receded into the background. Still, the memory pricked at her every time she entered the elevator, but there was never any time to investigate further.

Once again, she wheeled her cart of supplies into the elevator—it seemed like she did so a hundred times a day, she thought—and turned to see two doctors, another nurse, and a man in a tweed sports coat enter the elevator. She nodded a friendly greeting to her colleagues, and shared a smile with the man in civvies, who smiled back and tucked his newspaper more securely under his arm. The man had deep lines on his face and his dishwater blond hair was beginning to gray at the temples, but Susan thought both gave a rugged charm to what had once been a very handsome face. He was leaning on a cane, she noticed, and she automatically sized him up with her medical training. _Injury—probably a Vietnam vet_, she thought. _Those lines didn't come from age; he can't be more than forty_.

The doctors and the nurse got off at the second floor, and so she and the veteran rode in companionable silence to the third floor. As the elevator jolted to a stop, a tower of ill-perched plastic cups tumbled to the floor, and the man dropped his newspaper as he stooped stiffly to help her pick them up.

Susan retrieved the newspaper and gaped at the headline: _It's Divorce Time in Britain—Charles and Diana Call It Quits!_ Like many of her friends, she'd stayed up all night to watch the lavish wedding ceremony three years earlier, and had oohed and ahhed at Lady Diana's gorgeous, billowing dress. The gossip mags had hinted that the marriage wasn't exactly a fairytale, but this seemed a bit extreme.

"I didn't know they were getting a divorce," she said aloud, flipping the paper over to read down the column.

To her surprise, the veteran snatched the paper from her hand. "Yeah, well, life sure is unpredictable," he said in a slightly raspy tenor.

Susan couldn't think of a thing to say, but she was saved when the elevator bell pinged. The man gestured to the swiftly opening doors. "Is this your floor?" he asked.

She smiled. "Yeah—yours too," she reminded him. "It doesn't go any farther."

He smiled back. "It does if you have a key," he said, and produced the object in question from a pocket. He inserted the key into the slot, and the doors began to close.

Burning with curiosity, Susan craned her neck to see. "'Bye," she called absently.

"Have a nice day," the man called back, and the doors closed.

_Rats_, thought Susan. She turned and surveyed the floor, her teeth pulling at her bottom lip. _There must be another way up there…_


	5. Reunions and Revelations

AN: I don't own Airwolf; Mr. Bellasario and Universal do.

Chapter 5: Revelations and Reunions

When Hawke awoke, he felt as if he'd had a long, comfortable nap. He had a long way to go before he was at the controls of a chopper, but at least the grogginess was beginning to dissipate. An orderly had brought him a cheese sandwich a few minutes earlier, and to his pleasant surprise, Hawke found that he'd actually wanted to eat it.

When the sandwich was nothing but crumbs and the accompanying applesauce was a trace of liquid in the bottom of the cup, Hawke set the tray aside and thought about seeing his brother again. What would it feel like to end sixteen years of waiting? Would he even know what to say?

He raised a hand to rub his face, and felt something rasp against his skin. With a frown, he turned his hand to the light, and saw hard, slightly shiny ridges on his fingertips. The memory of a haunting song tugged at him, and suddenly the pieces clicked.

_Calluses, _he thought, _from playing the cello_. He rubbed his thumb against his fingertips, feeling the rough surfaces catch against each other. Something wasn't right here, something—

A voice cut into his thoughts; Dr. Holgate was standing at the door, grinning from ear to ear. "Stringfellow, you have a visitor."

Time stopped as Holgate stepped back, and a man dressed in casual pants and a tweed sportcoat limped into the room. The man's face was etched with deep lines, and the dishwater blond hair was beginning to show signs of gray, but the eyes were just the same blue as they had always been. Hawke felt his heart stutter in his chest, and the breath caught in his throat.

The man gave a half-smile. "Well?"

"_Saint John," _Hawke whispered, and then he was caught up in a brotherly hug that made sixteen years seem like just a few moments. He wrapped his arms around his brother's shoulders and wept.

In the hours that followed, the brothers talked at length about their lives, and caught the other up on what they had missed in the long years they had been apart. For the moment, String edited out anything overtly regarding Airwolf, but admitted that he worked for a government agency from time to time. Saint John's wry smile let String know that he knew exactly which agency String was working for, but he discreetly said nothing.

After the blond nurse had brought soup and crackers for String and coffee for Saint John, the older Hawke brother began to recount his time as a prisoner of war. String had the feeling that Saint John had also done some prodigious editing of his story, but he told enough to make String's skin crawl. Especially horrifying was the story of the day Saint John had tried to escape a remote prison camp with several other American prisoners.

"It was a disaster," he said, shaking his head. "We might have made it, except we triggered a booby trap about two miles out from the camp." He sighed heavily. "We were exhausted, and it was raining so hard that we didn't see the trip wire. I got a piece of land mine in my knee—" he gestured to his leg, propped on the lowered rail of the bed—"and the two other guys who survived were hurt pretty bad, so we were just a bunch of sitting ducks, waiting for them to come find us."

"How many did they get?" String asked, his voice quiet.

"Five. There had been eight of us."

_Damn shame, _String thought. "Were any of the survivors with you when you were rescued?"

"No. The VC kept us moving around a lot, so we didn't form too many attachments." Saint John chuckled ruefully. "It's odd, String. Our lives are full of so much activity; we don't realize that everything we've ever done, said, tasted or smelled or heard is stored between our ears. When everything is stripped away, we can relive those moments with perfect clarity."

String laid his head back against the pillow and studied his brother. "I've heard that from other POWs who made it out. That's incredible."

"Yeah." Saint John nodded. "I was kept in a cell—oh, about a third of a size of this hospital room—but I learned to have total freedom in my mind." The elder Hawke shifted in his chair and repositioned his leg more comfortably. "I used to think through some of the most incredibly detailed projects—I built a house once." He smiled, obviously reliving a life-giving moment in his hellish experience. "I cut every two-by-four by hand and hammered in every nail. It was my dream house; took me about six months to do that one."

The mental image of a ragged, gaunt Saint John retreating into a peaceful inner life while sitting in the corner of a leaky hovel sent a cold chill through String. "A bloody horror," he commented.

Saint John's proud smile for his dream house quickly faded. "Well, it's all over now, thanks to your friends."

String braced himself, fearing the answer to his next question but needing to know all the same. "How did Dominic die?"

Saint John lowered his gaze to the floor for a moment. "It was quick. The unit had three choppers—two Chinooks and a Cobra for support. Dom and Archangel were in the Cobra. They took some small-arms fire on their way out, flew about five or six more miles…then went in."

So there it was, the death of Dominic Santini: Mentor; friend; patriot. It still seemed so unreal that String felt his second question well up before he could stop it.

"No chance they survived?"

"No." Saint John's voice held the quiet acceptance of someone who had grieved and then forced themselves to move on. "It looked like napalm when they hit the ground."

String tried to dismiss a pang of jealousy. While his brother's months-old grief was beginning to mellow into wistful remembrance, String's was raw and angry. Besides, he mused, Saint John had much more to heal from than just Dom's death.

Saint John hadn't even known Michael, except perhaps for a few chaotic moments, but String found himself genuinely regretting Michael's death. No matter what their personal disagreements were, the man had put the safety and security of the American people first, last, and always. The Firm would be hard pressed to find a replacement of his caliber, String mused.

_Must have hit Marella pretty hard too,_ he thought. _Hope she's doing okay._

He sighed, and Saint John smiled. "Tired?" asked the elder Hawke, getting stiffly to his feet.

Pushing aside his grief, String returned his brother's smile and reached up to clasp his hand. "Yeah. It's too good of a day; I don't want it to end."

There was a long moment of silence between the brothers as they looked into each other's eyes. String remembered how they had communicated with just a look as they were growing up, and how their ability to seemingly read each other's minds gave their friends the creeps. Somehow, though, whatever link they'd had as boys wasn't working anymore, leaving String with nothing before him except the face of a worn ex-soldier. He kept staring at Saint John, trying to see some spark of the big brother whom he'd fought with and confided in and tried to emulate—but there was nothing left of that boy in the haunted eyes above him.

The silence was quickly becoming awkward, but to String's relief, it was broken by the arrival of Dr. Rothschild. The doctor was trailed by a man in an expensive suit, who held a pipe in one hand and exuded the air of a government official.

"Sorry to interrupt," said Dr. Rothschild, but Saint John shook his head as he collected his coat and walking stick.

"No, you're not interrupting. I was just leaving," he assured the doctor. "Say, Doc—String would like to know when I can take him home."

Rothschild turned to rake a professional gaze over String, and then smiled, obviously pleased by what he saw. "Oh, I'd say in a week or so." He turned toward the suit; to String's surprise, the man puffed a small white cloud from his meerschaum pipe.

"This is Morton Abrams, Mr. Hawke," said Rothschild by way of introduction. "Do you have the energy to talk to him for a couple of minutes?"

It was on the tip of String's tongue to say, "No," but once again he thought it might be better to get the interview over with. He shrugged tiredly, and Abrams stepped into the room.

"I'll see you tomorrow," called Saint John, and String gave him a nod of understanding.

"I'll walk with you," said Rothschild. String kept his eyes on his brother until they had rounded the corner, and then turned his attention to Abrams.

"You don't mind?" Abrams asked, gesturing with the smoldering pipe.

At this point, commenting about the dangers of smoking in a hospital seemed rather a moot point, so Hawke shook his head. "No."

Abrams fished his wallet from the inside pocket of his jacket and handed it to Hawke. "Like Dr. Rothschild said: I'm Morton Abrams, Deputy Director for the Firm."

Hawke gave the ID a cursory glance, and then gave the wallet back to Abrams before the small print had a chance to bring back his headache. "You're Archangel's replacement."

Abrams tucked the wallet away. "No," he countered, a smile playing about his lips, "just the man who got his job. He was…_unique_." With pleasantries concluded, Abrams got down to business. "You and I need to discuss the location of a certain important piece of United States military hardware."

Hawke sighed. _Of course. _ "Airwolf."

"Well, since _you_ don't seem to have any further use for it." Though Abrams' tone was polite, it was backed with the kind of steel Hawke had often heard in Michael's voice. "Now, if we could clear up this little matter right now, I could go back to Virginia tonight."

The man was most definitely a bureaucrat, Hawke thought sourly. He'd imagined this moment before, thought about what it would be like to unload Airwolf and stop risking his life every other day, but now he had a strong urge to keep her hidden.

_It's because of Dom_, he thought. They had always been close, but depending on each other in life-or-death situations had brought another dimension to their relationship. Airwolf was a living reminder of those times, and part of him wanted to hold on to her like a talisman.

He glanced up at Abrams. "Do you have a Las Vegas sectional map?"

A look of triumph flashed briefly on Abrams' face before he controlled it back into his bland bureaucratic mask. "I can get one here in a minute." He turned and spoke to the blond nurse at the nurses' station, and she nodded and left the desk for a moment to enter an office where the blinds were drawn. When she came back in a few minutes, she had a folded packet of paper in her hand, and she gave the packet to Adams. They exchanged a few words, and String heard them both laugh softly.

Abrams was already beginning to unfold the map when he walked back into the room. He laid the heavily creased paper in String's lap and then stepped back as String smoothed out the unwieldy page.

Seeing the route in his mind's eye, String ran his finger along a solid green line that led out of Southern California. "Take the 10 out of L.A., then get on the 15 towards Vegas. There's an unmarked road that leads into the back of the nature preserve and skirts around the edge of the Indian reservation." He skimmed his fingertip northward over the map and stopped in an area marked with crosshatched lines.

Abrams took his bifocals from another pocket and put them on. "'Valley of the Gods'," he read, peering at the map. "Quite fitting."

"There's a big rock formation about three miles into the valley. She's in a cave on the northwest side of that formation." Hawke tapped the page again for emphasis, and then looked up at Abrams.

The new Deputy Director's brows came together. "How did you manage to get a helicopter into a cave?"

Hawke smiled briefly, remembering Dom's pride at having scouted the location. "There's a funnel at the top of the formation. Just keep it still and drop it down about two hundred feet. Plenty of clearance to spin it up at the bottom."

Now Abrams' brows rose. "Very impressive," he said, refolding the map. "No wonder we couldn't find it." He held out his hand. "Well, Mr. Hawke, this is where our association ends. On behalf of the United States government, it's been a pleasure doing business with you."

The protective feeling was still tugging at Hawke as he shook Abrams' hand. "Pleasure was all mine."

After Abrams left to go collect his prize, Hawke lay back and stared blankly up at the ceiling. _It's over._ He and Saint John could go up to the cabin and relearn what it meant to be a family—except this time, Dom wouldn't be there to hold them together.

Tears welled up in his eyes at the thought, and he reached up to brush them away. Once again, his fingertips dragged across his skin in a way that was strangely familiar—then he remembered. Calluses, from the press and slide of his fingertips across the thick strings of the cello, as he wove his bow left and right, the antique wood of the cello's body thrumming against his knee—

A flash of something like electricity went through him, awakening every nerve and cell of his body. The day of the crash seemed to run at high speed through his mind, like a video cassette player set on fast-forward. He caught glimpses of the day as they flew past: Tet, sleeping at his feet; the gaudy red-and-white tail rudder of Moore's biplane; Moore's sad smile as he talked of his lost brother; the vertigo and helplessness he'd felt during the crash. Eight months had passed since that day…

_No._ There was absolutely no way he'd been lying in a hospital bed for eight months—and yet a part of him knew it was true, knew it with everything in him. The crash, Dom, _Saint John_…

He rubbed his fingertips together again, and suddenly, he knew. Someone—he didn't know who they were, but he had a hunch they spoke fluent Russian or Arabic—was after Airwolf, and he'd led them right to her.

He had to get out of there quick, but he needed help. His brain was finally shaking off whatever Mickey Finn they'd pumped into him, but he didn't think he could drive or fly. He also didn't relish confronting a bunch of KGB agents in an air-conditioned hospital gown, which meant trying to find some clothes.

If his captors were going to get Airwolf, it meant that they either had someone who could fly the chopper out of the funnel, or they were planning on forcing him to take it up for them. Saint John would be able to do it, but with his injury—

A sick feeling came over him as he thought of Saint John—or perhaps, the man who _called_ himself Saint John Hawke. String had felt that something was off when he'd met the man, but in his drugged state he'd written it off as sixteen years of separation and the mental trauma of war. Now he realized there might be something much more sinister at work: If that man was indeed his brother, then Saint John was a traitor. With a shock, String realized that if he could choose for Saint John to die in the killing fields of Vietnam or live and yet be a traitor to his country, String would rather see him dead.

Hawke ventured a glance over at the nurses' station, but the desk was empty. For the first time, he noticed that there were no clocks in the room, so there was no way to tell if it was mealtime or time for a shift change. He heard footsteps in the hallway, so he shut his eyes and deliberately concentrated on slowing his breathing to mimic sleep.

The ruse worked, for the person who came into his room didn't speak, but began to jostle the IV setup. Hawke dared to open his eyes to the barest slits, and saw the tall blond nurse remove the amber-colored bag from the IV pole, switch it with a clear bag, and inject a clear liquid into the second bag. She capped the syringe, and through his lashes Hawke saw the woman's face twist into a smug smile as she left the room.

When the footsteps had retreated, Hawke eased the needle from his vein and pressed the small wound hard for a moment. Then he gathered the needle and tubing into his other hand and covered his IV hand with it, and closed his eyes again. When they came back, he knew he would be ready.

* * *

When Susan's shift ended, she'd clocked out like usual, but she'd left her purse and belongings in her locker in the basement. Instead of going home, she made sure no one was watching, and then slipped into the service stairwell. Silent on her thick-soled nursing shoes, she crept up four flights of stairs to a door marked 'Storage.' There she paused, her hand on the doorknob.

_I could get fired for this,_ she thought. _On the other hand, who would fire me for going into a storage room?_ _ It's probably not even open._

To her surprise, the door swung open as she turned the knob. What was more, the door did not open into a dank storage room but a lit hallway that looked the same as the rest of the hospital. The floor beyond was silent, except for the squawk of the PA system. She took a tentative step into the hallway and let the door swing closed, but not latched, in case she needed to make a hasty retreat.

All the things that had been happening lately had made her feel strange, as if there were something going on that didn't quite fit. The blond nurse who had yelled at her, the patient stumbling down the hallway, the wounded veteran with his kooky newspaper and 'special' key to get to the 4th floor—it was all very mysterious, and even a little scary. Still, that patient had looked like he was in bad shape, and if there was one thing that she couldn't ignore, it was the need to help someone in trouble.

She hadn't gone very far when she spied the patient lying quietly in a large private room. He looked better than he had the last time she'd seen him, but there was something that was still wrong about him. She stepped into the room for a closer look, and reached out her hand to feel his forehead.

The man's hand flashed out and grabbed her arm, and his other hand came around and clapped over her mouth before she could even scream. She struggled hard against him, but he was strong, and he'd lifted her too high for her feet to gain purchase on the floor.

"Shhh!" he hissed in her ear. "Don't scream! I just wanna know what day it is."

Susan immediately stopped squirming, and as soon as his hand came away from her mouth, her jaw dropped open in shock. "What?"

His sapphire eyes bore into hers. "What's the date?" he demanded.

_Delirious? Mental breakdown?_ Her brain grabbed for a possible diagnosis. "March third," she heard herself say in a stage whisper.

He still had hold of her arm, and he shook her a little for emphasis. "What year?"

Now she was really confused, and more than a little alarmed. Had he been isolated because he was a danger to others? Was he some rich weirdo, like Howard Hughes? Humoring him seemed safest. "1984," she answered.

An expression akin to relief moved across his face, only to be replaced by one much grimmer. He held his hand up before her face. "Look," he said. "Calluses."

Susan gulped, able to clearly see the hard ridges on his fingertips from playing some stringed instrument. "Sure are."

"I wouldn't have calluses if I'd been in a coma for a year," the man hissed. "Would I?"

She slowly shook her head, wondering what on God's green Earth she'd gotten herself into.

* * *

All day, Dom had had the feeling that something was wrong.

Normally, his hangar was a shining example of organization, efficiency, and cleanliness, but today everything seemed to be utter chaos. Tools mysteriously moved from where they should have been, parts were nowhere to be found, and even the coffee maker was on the blink.

As the day wore on, the feeling only got worse. Determined not to let something so vague bother him, Dom resolutely went about the business of running his airfield. About four o'clock, he was knee-deep in oil-soaked machinery, hammering at a stubborn bit of metal, when the hammer slipped and he whacked his thumb soundly. Frustrated and in pain, Dom let out a string of curses in both Italian and English that could have blistered the paint off the JetRanger.

He stalked over to the tool box and chucked the hammer in, then slammed the lid of the box over the offending instrument. With his anger spent and his pain fading, Dom realized that he was being watched. He whirled to meet the concerned look of Jim Dawes, the high school boy who cleaned up around the hangar every afternoon.

"Everything okay, Mr. Santini?" The kid was standing with brows knitted in the middle of the hangar, gloved hands clutched around the handle of the push broom.

Dom forced a tight smile. "Yeah—well, no, not really," he admitted. "You ever get the feeling that something just ain't right?"

Jim looked around at the disarray of the habitually neat work space and shrugged. "Maybe it's because Mr. Hawke isn't here?"

_Maybe that's it_, Dom wondered. Thanks to the savvy investments made by String's late father, as well as the interest from the life insurance policies Dom had seen straight into the bank, String worked at the hangar for something to do, rather than to earn a paycheck. At the ripe old age of thirty-five, String was effectively retired, but he rarely missed a chance to work with the machines he loved. Yesterday, he'd told Dom that he was going to do some work around the cabin, so Dom hadn't expected to see him.

_So why have I been praying all day that he'll walk through the door?_

It was as if he'd been struck by lightning. In a flash, he knew what was wrong. Pulling a rag from the pocket of his coveralls, Dom wiped his hands and headed for the office.

"Listen, Jimmy," he said over his shoulder, "let's finish up tomorrow. You head on home now."

The kid frowned, but obediently took off his gloves. "Yessir. See you tomorrow."

A few moments later, Dom faintly heard the sound of the outer door opening and closing, and the high-pitched growl of Jim's motocross bike flared and faded. Dom closed the office door, and then thumbed the radio to life. "Santini Air to Hawk's Nest," he called. "Hawk's Nest, come in."

He closed his eyes, and found himself mouthing _Hail Mary, full of grace; the Lord is with thee…_

There was no answer, and he clicked the button again. "Santini Air to Hawk's Nest," he called. "String, you there?"

No answer.

Slowly, Dom replaced the mic on the shelf. He scrubbed his hands over his face and sighed; was he being paranoid? String was a grown man, more than capable of taking care of himself, so what did it matter if he didn't answer his radio? He could be out in the yard, or fishing on the lake, or taking a nap—

_No_. Dom had always known when the boys were in trouble, even when they were young. When String had been in the car wreck that took the life of his fiancée, Dom had known then, too.

There was one person who might know for sure what was going on—or at least, with the vast resources at their disposal, could find out in a quick hurry. Besides, String knew where a very valuable piece of government hardware resided, and if something had happened to him, there were people who needed to know.

Without hesitation, Dom picked up the phone and dialed the secure number he'd long ago committed to memory.

"Yes?" said a female voice on the other end.

"This is Dominic Santini," he said flatly. "I need to talk to Archangel."

* * *

It was late when the phone rang again. Dom awoke with a start, having dozed off at his desk. He snatched up the handset. "Santini Air."

The voice on the other end was that of Marella, Archangel's aide. "Do you know where the airfield at Crofton is?"

"Yeah. Is String—"

"We'll brief you when you get here." There was a heartbeat's-worth of silence. "Just hurry."


End file.
